


The Wimsical Adventure of the Dragon's Tail

by inamac



Category: Ace of Wands, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Voynich Manuscript - Anonymous
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bookstores, Gen, Magic, Pirates, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25181767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: 43 years after Viscount St. George helped his Uncle Peter discover the hidden treasure of Cut-Throat Conyers, the pirate, his son approaches bookshop owner Mr Sweet with a request that will reveal more about the life of an old pirate and a young doctor.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the events in Dorothy L Sayer's short story "The Learned Adventure of the Dragon's Head" (1928), in which Lord Peter Wimsey and his nephew Viscount Gerald St. George follow a trail of clues in an ancient manuscript to a pirate's treasure. 
> 
> Since this story is set in 1971, after the end of the second series of Ace of Wands, neither Lord Peter (b1890 and living quietly at Talboys with his wife and sons), nor his nephew, Viscount St. George (1916-1944) appear.
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/55912776@N05/50096341253/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

The tangle of streets that surround the soot-blackened bulk of the British Museum and comprise the area known as Bloomsbury are home to almost as many curiosities as the Museum itself. Here you may buy mummies from Ancient Egypt, amphora from Greece, carpets from Turkey, carvings from the heart of Africa, horse trappings from the Russian steppes, samurai armour from Japan and boomerangs from Australia. And if some of these may have come from no further than Dagenham the purchasers are but a step away from experts who can verify their authenticity, or otherwise.

One such expert is Sebastian Sweet, owner and proprietor of the small but crowded antiquarian bookshop that bears his name in faded green and gilt script over the bowed Georgian window facing the rear entrance of the Museum. Mr Sweet is consulted not only by lovers of books, manuscripts and incunabula, but also those with more esoteric needs, particularly in matters of the occult.

The man who had just stepped out from the exit of the Museum on this windy autumn afternoon, did not appear at first sight to be the sort of client who normally sought out Mr Sweet. He was in his mid-twenties, apparently wealthy, judging by his carefully styled, strawberry blond hair, well manicured hands and discretely expensive clothes. The light tan sheepskin coat with its turned back fleece collar was of a style associated equally with successful London villains and landed country gentlemen. The old-fashioned battered leather handbag he carried suggested the latter, or possibly a Lincoln’s Inn pupil.

Nevertheless, his appearance belied his mission for, having hesitated for a moment on the kerb to examine the shops opposite, the man, with a shake of his head which apparently banished whatever concerns he had, strode purposefully across the road to push open the door of Mr Sweet’s emporium. The jangle of the bell on its spring brought the proprietor hurrying from the rear of the shop where he had been cataloguing lepidoptera.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I be of assistance?”

“I hope so,” the man smiled and offered his card. “I have,” he said, “A rather unusual problem and I am led to believe that you can put me in touch with someone who might help.”

The card was heavy cream stock, edged with silver, and bearing a coat of arms showing three silver mice on a black shield, surmounted by a ducal crown bearing a cat crouched to spring. Mr Sweet did not need to read the name printed below to identify one of the most well known aristocrats in the country, though the man was surprisingly young, much the same age, he thought as Tarot.

“I will do my best, your Grace. Perhaps you would prefer the privacy of my office, if the matter is delicate.”

“Intriguing, perhaps, but not exactly delicate.” Victor Henry St George, seventeenth Duke of Denver, set his case on the desk, snapped open the catches and drew out an extremely battered and foxed volume of Munster’s _Cosmographia Universalis_. As he did so a few loose sheets detached themselves and fluttered to the floor. Mr Sweet retrieved them and placed them on the desk before casting an expert eye over the book.

“It is indeed in a rather sad state,” he said. “Do you require a replacement volume, or some conservation?”

The Duke smiled. “Conservation might be advisable, but the book has an interesting history, and is, quite literally, irreplaceable. It belonged to my father, and contains, or rather, contained, the clues to the secret location of a pirate’s treasure. That secret was unlocked, and the treasure found long before I was born, but I have recently been given reason to believe that there are other secrets that have yet to be discovered.”

"Hmmm," Mr Sweet murmured thoughtfully. He put the book flat on the table and began turning the pages with care. "There are several of the doublepage maps missing, I suppose that some vandal removed them to frame for separate sale? And at least one owner appears to have annotated it heavily in black ink, not only in the margins but across the woodcuts. Are these the clues you spoke of?"

The Duke nodded. "Cuthbert Conyers, also known as Cut-throat Conyers, was a sixteenth century pirate, and also something of an astrologer and alchemist, judging from the allusions in his clues. In fact that is why I came to consult you. The book hasn't really been looked at since before the War, but I am currently curating the Wimsey Collection of incunabula, following my great-uncle's recent donation to the Bodlian, and I found that some pages from other works were included in it." He indicated the pages that Mr Sweet had retrieved and placed on the table beside the book. "One is a page from Middleton's 1678 _Practical Astrology_ which was also a clue to the treasure, and had apparently been used as a bookmark, but the others were discovered when I was preparing the book for display. They were hidden between the leather binding and the endpapers. I assumed they were random pieces of parchment used by the original bookbinder, but I have been unable to identify their source, other than that they appear to be some sort of alchemical work of about the same date."

Mr Sweet polished his glasses and bent to scrutinise the pages. The Duke, with surprising alacrity, produced a powerful gold-framed lens from an inside pocket and handed it to him, the better to examine the old fashioned black letter text.

"Hmm," he muttered. "These might be a copy of formulae from Ashmole, or possibly Dee (the son, of course), _Fasciculus Chemicus_ , in the original 1629 edition."

"I have checked both," said the Duke, "This page does not appear in any edition of either work. It appears, from the illustrations, to be an entirely unknown alchemist's notes on the achievement of the _Great Work_. Unfortunately it is not written in any known language. That is why I am consulting you. I understand that you have access to people who might be able to help."

Mr Sweet looked dubious. This was certainly something that Tarot, with his unrivalled knowledge of arcana, might well recognise. But to what purpose? An English Duke, with access to a vast fortune, would scarcely need to attempt changing lead to gold. And as for the other aspects of the alchemists secrets, they were best kept secret.

"I do know someone who might be able to help to translate the document. but he would need to know your purpose in asking."

"Isn't curiosity enough?" The Duke's tone was light and bantering, but his eyes were not smiling. "Well, perhaps not. Since discovering the document I have been subjected to a number of 'accidents', both to my person and to others whom I have consulted. They lead me to suspect that someone or some organisation, will stop at nothing to possess it. Short of hiring a permanent bodyguard, which is unlikely to be a practical proposition, or of publicly destroying the documents, which I am loath to do, I can think of no way to prevent them other than discovering the secret myself. Or of employing someone I trust to do so."

"I see. Well, if you will entrust the book and the papers to me I will discuss it with my colleague, but I can promise nothing."

"I should be grateful even for a negative result," said the Duke, "It might convince whoever else is interested that there is nothing to find. And if not..." He smiled, "I love a mystery. It is a family failing."

"In that case I will ask my friend. May I have the papers to show him""

"That was my purpose in bringing them."

Having received the Duke's assent Mr Sweet tucked the loose pages, together with the Duke's card, back into the volume and, with the automatic ease of long practice in the book trade, used the top sheet of the pile of wrapping paper on the desk to make a neat parcel. 

"Thank you." The Duke picked up his much lighter bag and snapped the locks closed. "I shall be in Norfolk, at Dukes Denver. The number is on my card. A message will reach me there at any time."

"Two or three days, no longer," said Mr Sweet. He slipped the parcel into the safe beneath the desk before escorting his visitor to the door.

While they had been speaking dusk had begun to fall, along with a light Autumnal rain that blurred the streetlamps and obscured the view of the museum opposite. As the Duke stepped from the shelter of the shop a flurry of wind swept up the street, driving with it a scatter of leaves fallen from the London plane trees that stood in the museum grounds. The Duke turned away from the wind, and it was as well that he did so, for in the wake of the leaves, almost as if driven along with them, a dark figure on a motorbike barrelled up onto the pavement and quite deliberately rode him down.

For a moment Mr Sweet wondered whether the talk of pirate treasure had affected his eyesight, for the rider appeared to be clad in a long skirted coat, with wide embroidered cuffs, high-topped boots, and was not wearing a helmet but a tricorn hat, over wildly waving long curls. He leaned from the vehicle and swept up the bag that the Duke had dropped from the pavement before gunning the machine back onto the road, making a sliding turn into Russell Square, and vanishing in the direction of Euston.

The sound of the retreating bike was drowned by the screech of brakes and blare of horns from the vehicles which had been cut up as the rider made his escape. A taxi stopped only inches from the fallen man, and the driver jumped out.

"Ruddy thieves! Are you all right, gov'nor?"

Mr Sweet reached the Duke's side as the cab driver was helping him to his feet. There was a smear of blood on the man's temple, and he was badly winded but, apparently, otherwise unharmed. Nevertheless he accepted the cabbie's offer of a lift to his doctor's surgery, closer and quicker than to St Thomas' Hospital and, with a word to Mr Sweet to "complete their business", was shortly on his way.

Mr Sweet thoughtfully retreated to his shop, and, although it was an hour still to closing time, turned the 'OPEN' sign on the door to 'CLOSED', put up the shutters and left quietly via the back door. The wrapped book swinging from his hand in an inconspicuous shopping bag.


	2. Chapter 2

Ozymandias the owl hooted mournfully and shifted on his perch. He was used to being the centre of attention and was annoyed that three people in the room were currently focussed on the parcel sitting on the low coffee table, while the fourth, Sam, was seated at his workbench, more occupied in tinkering with an odd mechanical contraption, than paying attention to owls. Tarot leaned forward and unwrapped the package carefully.

"I think you are right, Mr Sweet," he said. "It does sound as if someone tried to steal this from the Duke. I hope that, when they discover that the book is not in his bag, they do not attempt to burgle your shop."

"Oh dear," said Mr Sweet "Do you think they might? I am not sure that my security is designed to frustrate thieves," he said, but I thought it best to bring it to you at once."

Sam glanced up from his task. "Don't worry," he said, "I have some ideas for additional security that would give any thieves more than they bargained for."

Tarot nodded. "A good idea." He had the package open and was looking carefully through the contents.

"So what's so special about it?" asked Lulli. "It just looks like one of your old books. Is it rare?"

"I don't think that the book is important," said Mr Sweet. "It is rare, but not difficult to find, there are copies in all the major libraries, and many in private hands. Indeed I have a couple of copies in the shop that are in much better condition than this one. The other page is from a separate work, but also an accessible one. No, what appears to be unique is the manuscript. It appears to be at least as old as the book, and written in no known language."

Tarot lifted the two loose sheets carefully. "The astrology page is part of the chapter on acquiring riches," he said, "The dates of alignments of the best planets to invest, or gamble."

Sam grinned. "So when do we head for Vegas?" he asked.

"Don't mock it, Sam. A lot of people still use this 17th century book to work out when to carry out important work. Belief gives confidence, and confidence is a key to success." He set down the page and picked up one of the parchment sheets. He ran his long fingers over the surface of the text, before lifting the sheet to his nose. His concentrated expression forestalled a further flippant remark from Sam. "Genuine parchment; calfskin," he said. "And oak-gall ink. That smell is unmistakable. It is probably earlier than the book. Fifteenth or Sixteenth century."

Mr Sweet nodded. "That makes sense, if the parchment was used as spare material by the bookbinder. All sorts of ancient manuscripts are coming to light when old books are being repaired. Though in this case it looks as if the parchment was deliberately hidden. But what about the writing?" he asked. "I have only come across text like that once before, and then only in a unique volume. I had the opportunity to examine it before its last sale, but the value was far beyond my means, or that of any of my clients."

"You mean the so-called _Voynich Manuscript_? You may be right. But that book is in America, so what are some pages doing in the library of an English nobleman?"

"That, said Mr Sweet,"is one of the questions that the Duke wants answered. There are known to be over 20 pages missing from the original book, perhaps these were removed for a purpose. The illustrations look alchemaical, and there are very few such in the remaining volume. The old pirate who wrote on the illustrations of the _Cosmographia_ is unlikely to have baulked at the idea of tearing a page out of a book he needed." He shuddered, with the true bibliophile's horror of deliberate damage to a book.

"No," said Tarot, thoughtfully. "And a pirate who had collected a considerable treasure would have no use for a formula designed to turn lead into gold."

"What!" Sam and Lulli exclaimed in unison. Mr Sweet also looked surprised.

"Is that what this is? The recipe for the Philosopher's Stone?"

"Well," said Tarot, turning one sheet of parchment from side to side in order to examine it more carefully. "I can't be sure, the text is very corrupted, and the old Magical languages can be misleadingly obscure, but it does seem to be a record of some alchemist's experiments with the Great Work."

"Looks like a lot of funny pictures of plants and some weird pot-hooks to me," said Lulli. "I don't see any stones."

"The Philosopher's Stone," said Tarot, "Isn't a real stone, and it never belonged to a philosopher."

Sam tightened a final nut and dropped the remaining bolts he had been using to fix his machine to a coloured circular board back into their tin. Rising from the workbench he moved over to look at the parchment. "So what is it, and who did it belong to?" he asked.

"It is a magical formula," said Mr Sweet. "The old alchemists used code words to keep their work secret, so no one knows what is actually meant by the Stone. It could be a potion, or an object, or just a series of magic words or gestures. But anyone who possesses the secret can change lead into gold."

"Lead into gold," said Tarot. "Is just the start of the process. And the easiest." He tipped some of the nuts from Sam's tin into his palm, closed his fingers over them and made a pass over the fist. When he opened his hand the grey metal gleamed gold, and the nuts had been threaded together to make a short bracelet. He handed it to Lulli.

"One problem," said Sam, "those are steel, not lead.

"And this isn't gold," Tarot nodded, "But the principle is the same."

"Changing something cheap into something valuable?" Sam suggested.

"Misdirection. The quest for the Philosophers Stone wasn't really about transmuting metal, it was about knowledge, and power, and about something that scientists are still searching for. We call it the 'Magic Bullet'. A cure for all ills. The alchemists really wanted to brew the Elixir of Life. And to raise the dead."

Lulli shuddered. "Creepy." 

"The authorities thought so. That is why so many manuscripts were destroyed, often along with their owners. And why what we have left is written in code. And often the key to the code died with its originator."

"Then," asked Sam, "Why does someone want it enough to attack the owner in broad daylight? If no one can read it?"

Tarot looked thoughtful. Instead of answering the question he turned to Mr Sweet. "You said that the person who mugged the Duke was dressed as a pirate?"

"That is the impression I got. Of course, after my conversation I may have been predisposed to interpret his costume in that way. But he was also wearing an eyepatch, and it did appear to me that when he reached out to catch the bag he used a hook, not a hand."

"Not exactly inconspicuous," Sam said.

"Distraction, again. People look at the clothes, not the face. A flamboyant costume is as good as a mask. You know that, Sam, we use it all the time in the act."

Sam grinned, remembering some of Tarot's more flamboyant costumes.

"But why a pirate?" asked Lulli.

"That is what we need to find out. This all started with a pirate's treasure. I think we need to find out more about Cut-throat Conyers and his descendants." Tarot picked up the Duke's card and read the address. "We will start here, in the morning."

"Meanwhile," said Mr Sweet, "whoever stole the bag will have discovered that the book and manuscript are no longer in it, assuming that those are what he was after."

"I think they were," said Tarot, "And we need to take precautions. You, or the shop, may be their next target."

"I realise that. Sam said something about improving the security."

"I think that you need some personal protection too. And something better than a few bells and whistles."

Sam looked affronted. "The shop alarms are the best available state of the art," he said, then grinned. "Though I can go one better. It's just as well I've finished this." He walked across the room to the shelves where he kept his tools and completed tricks and pulled out one of the many odd contraptions. It looked like a camera attached to a set of gears and rods and with wires leading to a separate electronic box.

"Video surveillance?" asked Tarot.

"And sound," said Sam. "Once this is set up anyone who approaches the shop will be filmed, and if they actually get inside we will get an automatic alert on the radio link."

"Is that legal?" Mr Sweet sounded doubtful.

"Breaking and entering isn't legal," Sam grinned. "And I doubt that our pirate will complain to the rozzers that we've photographed him." He started to fit the components of the contraption into a case. "I'll run you back home tonight with this gear, and come down tomorrow and fix it up for you."

"Assuming they don't come back tonight," said Mr Sweet.

"I doubt it," said Tarot. "I don't think that pirate is a local. The answers to these riddles lie in Norfolk. We'll go up there tomorrow." He took the Duke's card from the package and slipped it into Sam's jacket pocket. "If you have any problems at the shop, ring us here."


	3. Chapter 3

It was full dark by the time the motorcyclist reached his destination. For several miles he had been running along country lanes, autumn leaves whirling in his wake as the powerful headlight cut a path between close-leaning chestnut trees and occasionally reflecting from the eyes of a passing fox or hunting owl. At length he slowed and turned between two ornate wrought iron gates, their pillars topped with stone carvings of old galleons in full sail.

He cut the headlight, but not before it had revealed the house at the end of the drive, a long, pale stone frontage, with fluted columns and a semi-circular flight of steps leading up under a classical pediment, not dissimilar to the design of the British Museum from which he had come. The rider ignored this, instead turning his machine off the gravel and driving slowly and carefully along a winding beaten earth path through the overgrown remnants of a formal garden which had once complemented the Italianate style of the mansion, eventually turning away from the house and running through an equally overgrown parkland to the edge of a large artificial lake.

The clouded moonlight revealed the shape of an old three-masted galleon, twin to the ones depicted on the gateposts, lying close to the shore of the lake. The motorcyclist cut the engine and an absolute silence fell, making the sight even more eerie, since there was no slap of water against keel, or any creak of timber to indicate that the ship was anything other than a ghost.

The atmosphere did not appear to affect the rider. He dismounted from the machine, propped it on its stand, and retrieved the stolen bag from the rear pannier before taking a silver bosun's whistle from the pocket of his coat and blowing a shrill blast.

Simultaneously two things happened. With a rattle of chains and a creak of timber a wide gangplank thudded from ship to shore. Above, light sprang from the forecastle, too quickly to be anything other than an electric bulb, although the lamp itself was an old-fashioned bullseye ship's lantern. It moved as if swung by a living hand, reaching the end of the gangplank just as the rider strode casually aboard. He doffed his hat to the similarly clad figure who stood by the rail, lantern in hand.

"Mission accomplished, Cap'n Conyers," he said, raising the bag to the light.

The Captain grinned. "Well done, Mister Pope! Come to my cabin and we'll inspect the loot."

The Captain's cabin, as befitted a man'o'war was high on the stern. As the Captain led the way the light revealed how strange the vessel was, for the deck along which they walked was stamped earth, from which rose the living trees that formed the masts, tall pines with their upper branches trimmed and topiaried to represent the curves of full sails. Forecastle and poop deck were timber structures, carved and gilded in 16th century style. The whole vessel was an illusion built on an island.

But it was an excellent illusion. The cabin to which the Captain led the way was a perfect reproduction of a cabin on a period sailing ship. The walls sloped outwards and were pierced by small, thick glass windows. Lamps hung on gimbals that would never rock to the swell of the sea. and the furniture was bolted to a deck against movement that, barring an earthquake, would never happen.

The Captain moved a scatter of sea charts, navigation instruments, a sextant, compass and astrolabe, to one side of the desk and the rider, Mister Pope, put down the bag in the space thus cleared. While he divested himself of hat, coat and eyepatch the Captain lit the remaining lamps. The sudden harsh light revealed the age-lined face beneath the cocked hat, the long grey ringlets framing deep, khol-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks and thin, chapped reddened lips. The figure might well have sailed the seven seas two centuries ago alongside the original Cut-throat Conyers, though he would never have accepted a woman aboard.

She ran a heavily beringed hand over the bag.

"At last! They cannot keep my legacy from me now! Were there any problems?"

"Like taking candy from a baby. The guy didn't know what had hit him!"

"And you weren't followed? The police..."

"Na. They couldn't catch me anyway. So, what have we got?"

The Captain clicked open the lock and pulled the bag open. The bag contained several envelopes, some loose papers, and two small leather-bound books. It took a few minutes for the Captain to sort through them, opening the envelopes and riffling through the books. Everything was turned out, and the Captain drew a long knife from the top of her boot and slashed open the lining. It revealed nothing. At last, with a cry of rage, the whole bag was lifted from the table, upended to ensure that it was completely empty, and then flung to the corner of the cabin.

"It is not here!" It was an animal scream of rage. "You made a mistake! This is not the right bag."

Mr Pope stepped out of range of the knife that had suddenly been reversed in the Captain's hand to menace him.

"I swear it is! I saw him put the book in there after he spoke to the man in the museum."

"You followed him?"

"Well," Pope swallowed against the steel at his throat. For all her age she moved like an eel, fast and deadly. "I had to get the bike, and there was traffic, and the one-way system... But I was only ten minutes, and he was right outside the museum when I took the bag."

She withdrew the knife, but did not sheath it.

"Outside the Museum? Where?"

"Montague Place. He must have come out of the back entrance."

"Was anyone with him? Anyone he might have given the book to?"

"No. There was a taxi dropping someone off, and an old guy shutting up his shop, but I didn't think the guy talked with anyone."

"What sort of shop?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. There was all sorts of old stuff in the windows. Books and pictures."

She ran a finger thoughtfully along the flat of the blade. "The taxi can be found, if necessary," she said, "But I think that we will start with the bookshop." She resheathed the knife.

"In the morning."


	4. Chapter 4

The following morning they set off early in Tarot's white e-type with Lulli driving, and Sam following on his motorbike, at least as far as the turning to Mr Sweet's shop where he was going to set up his spy camera equipment. It took Lilli the usual hour to get through the London rush hour traffic and onto the Cambridge road. Tarot was examining the book and manuscript and making notes as they drove. Of all of his esoteric skills his ability to read and write while travelling, whether by car or train, was the one which Lulli found most incredible. If she had tried it she would have felt sick in the first half mile.

They were not far from Ely and making good time on relatively deserted roads when Tarot set aside the _Cosmographia_ and unfolded an OS map of the area through which they were driving.

"Slow down, Lulli, there's a place I think we should look at somewhere nearby..." He broke off abruptly. Lulli touched the brakes, and as she did so a vintage car emerged from a side turning ahead. It was an old Austin Ruby, with running boards, swept up wheel arches and flip-out indicators. The car turned the corner so fast that the offside wheels almost left the ground, and shot off in the direction of London much more quickly than a car of its vintage should have been able to achieve. The watchers caught a glimpse of driver and passenger. Both were dressed as pirates.

"Hmm," mused Tarot, "It is good to have confirmation. Take the next right, Lulli, and follow the road around."

The next right was more of a track than a road and Lulli had to concentrate to avoid potholes and hummocks that might have grounded the car. For this sort of terrain her own beach buggy would have been much better suited.

Eventually they bumped onto the tarmac of the side road which the Austin must have used. It was bordered on one side by an avenue of chestnut trees and on the other by a long moss-grown brick wall which was pierced, after half a mile, by an imposing set of gates. At Tarot's word Lulli drew up on the verge just beyond them.

"What is this place?" she asked.

For answer Tarot picked up the _Cosmographia_ and flipped to the flyleaf where the name and address of the books former owner had been inscribed. "Yelsall Manor," he said. "It is where the book came from and, judging by our recent encounter, also our pirate friend." He hopped out of the car and walked back to the wrought iron gates, examining the ground as he went. Lulli emerged more decorously and joined him just as he crouched to point to two long skidmarks in the gravel of the drive where it met the road. "Looks like an old car track. "Going fast and heading in the right direction."

Lulli's attention was caught by something else. There were two signs beside the gates. The oldest, judging by the moss that almost obscured it, the fact that it was carved into a stone block inset into the wall, and the style of lettering, incised 16th century Roman script, read YELSALL MANOR. The other, much newer, was a painted wooden sign with lettering picked out in green and gold reading "The Conyers Research Foundation and Sanitorium". Lulli shivered.

"It sounds sinister," she said.

Tarot looked troubled. "I think we need to find out more about the Conyers Foundation." he said.

"And why they're sending out pirates on motorcycles to steal old books?"

"That is a very good question." Tarot smiled. "And one that I hope His Grace will be able to answer. We had better get on."

With a last glance at the stone warships atop the gateposts they walked back to the car to continue their journey.

Another forty minutes brought them through the village of Duke's Denver and to the entrance of Bredon Hall. The contrast with Yelsall Manor could not have been greater. There was no crumbling brick or moss here. A solid stone gatehouse guarded the entrance to green landscaped grounds and a long sweep of drive to a sturdy mansion that was an architectural mish-mash of styles from Elizabethan chimneys and turrets to Queen Anne bays and Georgian terraces. Although it was one of the most important stately residences in the country, it had an air of homeliness that welcomed visitors. 

Tarot parked the car at the foot of the grand set of steps that led up to the white stone Jacobean porch, over which the ducal arms, the same three running mice shown on the Duke's calling card, were carved in relief. He picked up the parcel containing the papers from the rear seat, and, with Lulli following, he mounted the steps to the main entrance door.

There was no need for them to ring the bell, for as they reached the top of the steps the door swung open. The man who had opened it was not the traditional butler or footman that they might have expected. He was in his late forties, wearing a well-tailored dark chocolate-coloured suit, with a cream turtle-necked sweater, his air was, nevertheless, that of an efficient and perfectly correct butler to an old titled family.

"Good morning, Sir, and madam," he said, in accents that owed more to Sheffield than Norfolk, "Might I enquire what business you have here?"

"His Grace is expecting us," said Tarot. "I phoned last night. We are friends of Mr Sweet, whom the Duke consulted about a private matter."

"Ah, The Pirate Papers." The man dropped his formal air and smiled. "You are expected. What names shall I announce?"

"I am Tarot. This is my assistant, Lulli Palmer." 

"Very good. Follow me." He led them through a succession of rooms and passageways to the rear of the house where the period trappings of an ancient English country house gave way to a light and airy open plan extension with a view across acres of parkland.

"Mr Tarot and Ms. Palmer, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Langford." 

The servant withdrew with a discreet bow, and the Duke, who had been contemplating the view through the long picture window, came forward with a delighted smile and shook Tarot's hand warmly.

"Tarot the Magician!" he exclaimed. "How fab! I saw your show at the Fortune last year. Amazing! And you are Mr Sweet's 'consultant'? Well if anyone can solve the mystery of this manuscript I bet you can!" He turned to Lulli and bowed over her hand with old fashioned courtesy entirely at odds with his excitement. "And this is your dazzling assistant, Lulli, isn't it? Welcome."

"Thank you, your Grace," she said, retrieving her hand. "I'm flattered that you remember." She had noticed that the steward had not given her first name, so his enthusiasm was genuine, if overwhelming.

"I could hardly forget. That trick with the owl and the floating head, astonishing. Even Great Uncle Peter couldn't guess how it was done, and he knew Maskelyn and Talma."

"They were before my time, your Grace" Tarot smiled.

"Mine too. But please, call me Victor. A penalty of having been born on VE day, but at least I was spared some of the more outré Wimsey names. _Your Grace_ makes me feel like my grandfather." He frowned, but he was clearly not a man who was reflective for long. "Langford? Refreshments for our guests. Tea or coffee? Or something stronger?"

"Coffee would be fine," said Tarot. Lulli, agreed and Langford departed to supply their needs. Meanwhile the Duke cleared a low table in front of a broad modern leather bench seat. 

"Now let's get to business. You've seen the book and manuscript?"

"I have them here," said Tarot, opening the bag he was carrying and extracting the book and papers to place them on the glass table surface. "I would be interested to hear how you came by them. Mr Sweet said that you only gave him a brief outline of some story about pirate treasure."

"That is right. You might already know the story though. Have you ever read a children's book called _The Vicarage Children and the Pirate's Treasure_? My mother wrote it based on the story told by my father. "

Lulli looked astonished. "Your mother is the children's writer, Hilary Thorpe?"

The Duke nodded.

Lulli became animated. "I loved the Vicarage Children books. That bit in _The Stolen Rubies_ when Jane is searching the angel roof in the church and Peter is holding the ladder, with the flood rising to his knees is wonderful."

"I agree," said the Duke. Though according to Mother it was Peter up the ladder and the flood came later."

"You mean that it's a true story?"

"Based on real events," the Duke said. "Which is why I asked about _The Vicarage Children and the Pirate's Treasure_. If you have read it then you know how my father found the Conyers' treasure by following the clues in this book."

"How exciting! You mean that this is the actual book? With the treasure map?" Lulli's eyes gleamed. 

The Duke nodded, and Tarot gave her an enquiring look, the children's story clearly was not something he had come across. 

Lulli picked up the book, showing the author, Munster's, name on the cover and then flicking through the pages until she came to Book V and a map of the Fortunate Islands. "Look," she said. "On his deathbed the pirate willed to his descendants _my treasure that I have buried in Munster._ Everyone thought that the treasure was buried in Munster, in Ireland, or Munster in Germany, but he meant that he had left a clue in the book by Munster, which shows these islands."

"So it was somewhere in the Caribbean Islands?" asked Tarot. Both Lulli and the Duke grinned. 

"That's what Cut-Throat meant people to think," the Duke said. "Or the Canaries, or even the Greek archipelago, all have been called the Fortunate Islands at some stage in history. But he had built a lake in the grounds of his house, and put in islands corresponding to the map. The treasure was hidden in an ornamental fountain. The lake and fountain are still there, but the treasure was used to establish the house as a medical research facility." 

"Yelsall Manor," said Tarot. "If the book belongs to the Conyers family why do you have it?"

"Because it was legitimately sold to my Father, and once the treasure had been found the family felt that it should remain his property. And it has come down to me as a sort of family heirloom. Though Mother has probably got more out of it as a prompt for one of her stories."

"And you hope," Tarot said, smiling at his companion's excitement, "That if we can solve this further mystery it will also be a prompt for her next book, _The Vicarage Children and the Philosopher's Stone_?"

"Not a catchy title," said the Duke, "But let's say that Mother is following my enquiries with interest."

"Then we had better not disappoint her."


	5. Chapter 5

Although it was barely dawn, and would be two hours before the other shops in the area opened, Mr Sweet had unlocked the doors and raised the shutters before Sam arrived, and now hovered anxiously as the technician set up his equipment.

"You won't damage the books, will you?" he asked.

"No chance," Sam assured him. "It's just a couple of cameras screwed to the beams and I'll clip the wires to the back of the shelves to keep them out of sight. When I've finished you won't even know they're there. Should help with any ordinary shoplifters too, in the long run."

Mr Sweet did not look reassured, though whether by the thought of having the equipment in his shop on a permanent basis, or because of the implied slight against his customers was not clear. 

Don't worry about it," Sam grinned, "Why don't you make me a cuppa while I finish this and then I'll show you the other little idea I've had."

Not reassured, Mr Sweet shook his head doubtfully but went into the back of the shop to put on the kettle.

When he returned with two delicate china cups, a matching teapot and sugar bowl on a tray Sam had completed his work and was unpacking some short, thick canisters from his bag. He put them on the table while Mr Sweet poured and served the tea.

"What are those," Mr Sweet asked.

"Smoke bombs — don't worry," Sam said hurriedly, as the bookseller almost dropped his cup in consternation, "they're quite safe. We use them a lot in Tarot's act. They don't even make a sound, just a lot of smoke, that won't damage anything."

Mr Sweet still looked doubtful, especially when Sam waved a hand around at the bookshelves. "Did you say you had a book here that looks like the one the Duke has?"

"I have a couple of good clean copies of the _Cosmographia_ ," he admitted. "And a 1930s facsimile edition. Nothing in the condition of the one His Grace showed me." There was an implication in his tone that a book in that sorry state would not be considered for sale in his shop."

"I'm not sure that our Pirate knows much about the book," said Sam. Let's have the facsimile, and open it to one of the illustrated pages." Suiting the action to the words he flipped open the book and, with a grimace at the somewhat gruesome illustration of a humanoid creature with what appeared to be an elephant's trunk for a nose, webbed hands and feet and dogs heads instead of knee and elbow joints, placed it on a book stand in the centre of the shop window display. A few deft twists of wire and some hidden connections to a battery under the stand completed his preparations.

"It's quite safe, I promise," he said, in the face of Mr Sweet's doubtful expression. "Unless someone tries to move it - and then all hell will be let loose!"

"Oh dear..."

"Let's have another cup of tea," suggested Sam, steering him into the back of the shop. "It's still a while before opening time."

~oo0oo~

It was nearly midday when the car arrived. Mr Sweet was in the back of the shop, cataloguing some new stock which had been delivered earlier, and Sam had popped out to Holborn to pick up some cans of lemonade and sandwiches before the little cafes became crowded with office workers redeeming their luncheon vouchers.

The Austin Ruby cruised slowly along the street, the driver searching the shop windows, until he finally pulled up outside the bookshop. A few curious passers-by watched the driver emerge; a young man with the same wild curls as the previous day's motorcycle thief, but he had abandoned his frock coat and high boots and the wide-sleeved linen shirt and sailor's trousers made him look more like a denizen of Long Acre than the High Seas. The same was not true of his companion. The woman that he helped from the passenger seat of the car wore a wide-skirted seventeenth century gown, with a brocade stomacher and a lace shawl, made incongruous with a bandolier sporting two pistols and a couple of powder-horns. Her tricorn hat, set atop greying curls, was adorned with black cockerel feathers.

Someone wolf-whistled. The pair ignored it and crossed the pavement to peer into the shop window. The old lady smiled. She said something, but the youth shook his head and pushed open the door of the shop. Both entered.

The doorbell jangled on its spring as they did so,

Mr Sweet, summoned by the bell, emerged from the back room. "Good afternoon," he said, automatically, "How can I help... oh!"

"Yes," smiled the woman, "I think you can help us. We came for the documents that the Duke of Denver left here. And for the translation that he undoubtedly asked you to provide." She emphasized her words by drawing one of her pistols and pointing it at Mr Sweet."

"Madam, I assure you..."

It seemed that he was destined never to finish a sentence. The boy had not switched his attention from the window display and now he said "Don't bother, Capt'n. It's here." He reached out to take the book from the window.

The room was suddenly filled with smoke. There was a sharp retort as the pistol discharged but, Mr Sweet, who knew his shop well enough to negotiate his way around it even in thick smoke, had already ducked out of the way behind one of the bookshelves.

The shop alarm sounded, and the door automatically locked. Thus far Sam's security was working perfectly, but the pirates were not to be deterred. The woman adjusted her aim, and a second shot shattered the window, allowing most of the smoke to disperse. The boy, the book under his arm, made for the rear of the shop. The woman in his wake. As they passed him Mr Sweet made a grab at the woman's arm. It was a mistake. She barely broke stride, seizing him in a surprisingly strong grip and pushing him in front of her into the store room.

"Which way out?" she asked.

"I don't..."

The boy nodded at the green-lit sign above the rear double delivery doors. "This way, fire exit," he said, using his bodyweight to slam open the security bar.

They had emerged into a small courtyard at the rear of the shop used for deliveries. There was no van there now, only the motorbike on which Sam had arrived earlier that morning. Somewhere the sound of sirens started, presumably some of the onlookers had managed to summon the fire brigade or the police. The woman swore.

"How long have we got?" she asked.

"Long enough. Hold him, I'll bring the car round." He grinned, "The cops will thank me for giving them parking space in front of the shop!" 

Mr Sweet had finally recovered enough to speak. "That book," he said, "Is not the one which you attempted to take from the Duke of Denver. If you wish to dispute ownership, do so with him."

The woman sneered. "We will," she said. "But we are just as interested in the person that he wanted to translate the other documents, and it seems that you are that person."

For a moment Mr Sweet considered protesting, then he glanced at Sam's bike and held his tongue. These people would probably not harm him if they thought he could help them. And Sam wasn't far away, he could get a message to Tarot. 

There was a brief toot on a horn, and the old Austin turned into the yard from the sidestreet. The boy was driving. He pulled up and the two of them helped Mr Sweet into the rear seat, the woman using a short length of ship's rope cut from a coil on the floor to secure Mr Sweet.

As they turned back out of the yard they almost ran down Sam, who had been returning with the lunch box. He took one look at the vehicle and its passengers and ran for his bike. Moments later he was weaving through the Bloomsbury backstreets on the trail of the pirates and their hostage.


	6. Chapter 6

"My treasure that I have buried in Munster," said Tarot, thoughtfully as he turned over the pages of the manuscript. "And this was found actually inside the book?"

"In the binding," said the Duke. I discovered it when the endpapers were removed for conservation."

"I think that old Cut-Throat brought back more than gold and jewels from his New World voyages," Tarot continued. "And something that may be more valuable. I would like to see more of Yelsall Manor."

"Nothing easier," said the Duke. "As Chairman of the trustees of the Conyers Foundation I have access to the house whenever I want."

"And what about the grounds?"

"Ah," the Duke hesitated. "When Dr. Conyers died he put the house with the laboratories and Sanatorium in Trust, but the grounds, as a sort of compensation to the family, were bequeathed jointly to his younger sister, Miss Calliope Conyers, and to his cousin, Wilberforce Pope."

"Wilberforce Pope was the man who tried to steal the book from your father?" asked Lulli.

"Yes, though he died after the War, and his son now has his share of the property. He and Calliope live on one of the islands on the lake in the grounds."

Tarot looked thoughtful. "I am interested in the gardens. Old Cut-throat landscaped them to resemble the geography shown in the book, I wonder whether he also introduced flora from the 'Fortunate Isles'."

"I'm not sure," said the Duke. "I've never paid much attention to the gardens. They're fenced off from the main drive, and you can't see much of them from the house. I have the impression that they're pretty much as the old pirate left them, though they've become more overgrown in recent years."

At that moment Langford arrived with the news that there was a telephone call for Tarot.

"I do hope that it's not bad news," said the Duke, "I would not like to think that my visit caused any problems for Mr Sweet."

"He has protection," said Tarot. and then hesitated. his eyes widened as his senses registered something that perhaps only Lulli might recognise. A warning. Danger. "Where is your phone?" he asked, urgently, "Our precautions may have failed."

"This way, Sir." Langford led the way to a separate study in the older part of the house. There, in a room furnished with deep leather armchairs and a desk that might have doubled as a billiard table, Langford handed Tarot a phone which looked like an old-fashioned candlestick receiver, although it was bright red and had buttons rather than a dial. State of the art technology in vintage clothing.

The voice on the other end was not Mr Sweet's but Sam's.

"Ace? Thank Heavens. I wasn't sure I had the right number. And I'm running out of change for the phone."

"Give me your number, I'll call back if we get cut off."

Having dealt with the essentials, Sam gave brief but full report of what had happened in his shop that morning. 

"They kidnapped Mr Sweet? What sort of car were they driving?"

"An old sit-up-and-beg rattletrap. Frankly I'm surprised by how fast it is. Nearly lost them in Essex, but I guessed that they were heading your way. They've just stopped for petrol. I'm calling from a box opposite the garage just outside Cambridge. Shall I keep following or cut across country and meet you?"

Tarot thought rapidly. If the car was the same one that he and Lulli had encountered on the road, and it seemed impossible that there could be two pirate-driven, souped-up vintage cars about this morning, then it was likely that they were making for Yelsall Manor. He made a decision. "Keep with them. They're probably going to turn off at Yelsall Manor, a few miles beyond Ely on the A10. If they do, stay there and wait for me. Try not to let them know you're following."

Sam's grin sounded down the line. "Will do. You know me, Stealthy Sam. Whoops, there go the pips. Is that all?"

"That's all. We'll meet you in about an hour."

The phone went dead, and Tarot returned to the living room. Lulli caught his expression.

"What is it, Tarot? Trouble?"

"Our pirates have kidnapped Mr Sweet. I think, Victor, that we had better take you up on your offer to show us round the Conyers Foundation as soon as possible."

"Of course. Langford, have the Bentley brought round. I'll drive."

~oo00oo~

When the Bentley arrived at the gates of Yelsall Manor Sam was already waiting, his bike propped up against the new _Conyers Sanitorium_ sign. He gave them a wave as they drew up, then finished the sandwich he was eating and capped his thermos, returning the bag to the bike's storagebox.

"They went in about ten minutes ago," he said, as Tarot opened the passenger side door and joined him on the verge. "They had Mr Sweet in the back. He looked okay."

"I don't think that they're killers," said Tarot, "But they are obsessed. The question is, with what?"

"Pirates? Treasure?" hazarded Lulli, joining them.

"Knowledge," said the Duke. "It's a family trait, right back to old Cut-Throat. And why else would they kidnap a book expert?"

Tarot nodded. "I think you're right. I wonder if they will accept a trade?"

"I suggest that you ask them," said the Duke. He reached into the glovebox and produced an old, ornate key, obviously of the same vintage as the iron gates. "This is the key to the garden gate, you may need it. I'll drive up and park at the house and collect the keys to the buildings on the islands, we may need them later. I'll join you by the boat-house. The entrance to the gardens is about fifty yards along on the left. You'll see the ship through the trees."

"Ship?" asked Sam.

The Duke smiled. "You'll see. It's quite something. The Conyers descendents are just as crazy as their pirate ancestor." He tossed the key to Tarot, who caught it deftly, making it vanish somewhere about his person. The Duke smiled, restarted the engine, and gave a blast on the horn. In response, presumably by means of some electronic security system, the gates swung open without a sound, obviously well-oiled and well used. The Bentley drove through and vanished round the curve of the drive. Sam wheeled in his bike, and propped it on its stand in the shelter of a tree before the gates swung closed and locked of their own accord. They set off to find their quarry.

A light rain had been falling during the journey, and had stopped only when the Bentley turned in at the gates of Yelsall Manor. There was still a damp mist in the air as Tarot and his friends walked along a long avenue of dripping lime trees and high yew hedges. Beyond the hedges the rest of the gardens themselves were a green blur of overgrown vegetation and glimpses of still grey water. The curved red roofs of a Chinese pagoda, similar to the one at Kew, but taller and slimmer, rose above the landscape in the distance.

As the Duke had said, there was a gap in the hedges a short walk from the gates, where a beaten track crossed the drive. The three turned left and Tarot used the key to unlock the gate in the overgrown wall that surrounded this part of the grounds. Beyond they made their way through a neglected formal garden and into a veritable jungle of plants that hid the house from the further reaches of the grounds. The path twisted and turned, and eventually ended at the edge of an ornamental lake. A small inlet separated them from what at first seemed to be a wooden fenced island. It was only when they looked up at the topiaried trees trimmed to form the spars and sails of an old galleon, and to one side, where a gilded wooden structure replicated the decks and cabins of a man-o-war that they realised what the Duke had meant when he talked about the 'ship'.

"It's just like the map!" exclaimed Lulli. "The one in the book! A galleon sailing out towards the islands." 

"It's certainly different," said Sam. "Do we go aboard?" He eyed the narrow channel between shore and island. It was perhaps ten feet wide, and looked very deep, despite being a merely ornamental lake. "We may have to find the boat-house first, that's a bit far to jump."

Tarot nodded. "That's why there is a gangplank," he said, pointing to where the gap in the ships rail showed an upright shadow against the light. 

"It's on the wrong side," Lulli pointed out. We would have to get someone on the other side to lower it."

Tarot looked thoughtful. "I don't think so. This place isn't as antique as it looks. If those old gates open electronically in response to sound I wonder whether this works the same way."

"We don't have a car horn," Sam pointed out.

"No, but there is a traditional way of announcing that you are boarding a ship. I wonder..." Tarot put two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Before either of his companions could react (though Lulli's hands were on their way up to cover her ears), the gangplank moved and fell, bouncing to a stop on the earth at their feet.

"Blimey! Warn us in future, will you, Ace? You nearly deafened me kings!"

"Sorry, Sam. I wasn't sure how loud it needed to me. Anyway, it's worked. Shall we?" He gestured to the path and led the way aboard.

As they approached the forecastle the cabin door opened and a woman stood there, the light behind her so that they saw only the outline of a long skirt, a plumed hat, and, in each hand, a pair of antique pistols.

"Stand!" she said, and for all the command in the word the voice was old and quiet. "Stand or I shoot!"

Tarot stepped forward. "I don't think you want to do that," he said softly. "We are here to help you, Miss Conyers."

She raised one of the pistols. "Captain Conyers, ye lubber!"

Tarot spread his hands, as if he was performing a trick. Nothing up my sleeves. "Captain Conyers. Of course. You are a credit to your ancestor."

As he had intended, her eyes and aim focussed on him. Sam moved quietly along the ship's rail to get behind her. The woman's thin lips curved in what might have been a smile. "I am so close," she said, "So close to what he was looking for. And you won't take it from me."

"The secret of Philosopher's Stone? I can help you."

She scoffed. "You're too late. I already have someone. Someone who can translate the notes and show me what I need. I don't need your help!"

"You mean Mr Sweet?" said Lulli. The woman jumped. Until that moment all her attention had been focussed on Tarot, but Lulli's words had broken the spell. There was a boom, as the gun discharged. Smoke obscured the woman for a moment, and when it cleared Sam was behind her, holding her arms and both weapons were on the deck.

"That was foolish," said Tarot, opening his hand to reveal a pistol ball, unharmed, in the palm. "You might have shot someone."

She spat. The gesture, though unladylike, was entirely in keeping with her personna. "D'you think I'd do less than Old Cut-Throat to protect the secret? These islands have sheltered it for four hundred years and I'll not betray it now."

"Mr Sweet can't help you," said Tarot, "But I can. _Hoc est magnum opus ad creare legumina lithica._ "

Her eyes widened. "You know it?"

"Dog Latin," he said. "And some Greek and Italian, with an admixture of Enochian text and half mirror-written, but the ingredients and procedures are clear. If one has access to them. And I assume that Cuthbert Conyers did."

"Yes, yes!" she nodded, and would have stepped forward but for Sam's grip on her arms. "He left it all here. And those fools with their laboratories and their chemicals don't see what is in their own backyard. But I do!"

"What does she mean?" asked Sam, looking at Tarot and, for a moment, loosening his grip on the struggling woman.

She took immediate advantage, pulling free and running for the open cabin door. Despite her outlandish costume, and her age, she was remarkably nimble, that and the advantage of surprise carried her through, and by the time they had recovered and followed her she was already at the ship's rail and casting off a small boat, as elaborately carved and gilded as the rest of her strange land-locked vessel, but also modern enough to have an outboard motor. A single pull started it, and over the roar of the engine, and the splash of water, she called in triumph. 

"I shall have my birthright. If the world is to thank a Conyers for a cure for its ills, it shall be me!"

"She means," said Tarot, in belated response to Sam's question, "that the 'treasure' that Cut-Throat Conyers left in Munster was a recipe for the Philosopher's Stone. And that she and her cousin are trying to manufacture it. I think we had better find another boat and follow her."


	7. Chapter 7

The Duke of Denver parked the car in his reserved space at the house. As he did so a figure hurried from the entrance of the building. The man was wearing a white lab coat and had a number of buff coloured folders under his arm.

"Your Grace!" He looked shocked, though the Duke visited regularly for meetings of the trustees and knew most of the staff well. 

"I'm sorry, I should have called, but this is something of an impulse visit."

"No, no." The doctor had recovered. "I... in fact I was about to call you. We really do have to talk about the Squatters. People are beginning to think the place is a madhouse!"

The Duke grinned. "Perhaps it would help to drop the name 'Sanitorium' from the sign. It does give the wrong impression."

The man spluttered with annoyance, and the Duke took pity on him. "It's all right Doctor Mason. Steps are being taken. As it happens I think that is is time we made peace with the 'squatters' as you call them. I have friends visiting Miss Conyers and Mr Pope now. In fact I came to collect the keys to the lake buildings and the boat-house." 

"Well I hope your friends succeed. Though I doubt that it'll help unless they're better lawyers than the ones my predecessor hired. Good luck. The boat-house keys are in Reception. Ask the girl for them." He hurried off on whatever errand had been interrupted and the Duke mounted the steps and entered the building.

There was a small reception area in the hall, and the receptionist, efficient in twinset and pearls, clothes doubtless chosen to inspire confidence in the sort of private clients the place catered for, greeted him as he entered.

"Your Grace! You aren't expected. I thought that the Trustees weren't coming to the meeting... I mean...Doctor Mason said..."

The Duke wondered why she, like the doctor before her, was so flustered. It wasn't like the usual efficient response of the staff to his arrival. And the reference to a meeting puzzled him. He certainly hadn't had any communications from the Trust to indicate the need for a high level meeting, there was obviously something going on, and he wondered whether it had something to do with the activities of the 'squatters' in the grounds. If so, surely the doctor would have been more concerned about his reason for wanting to visit them. But investigating the reason for the odd reactions of the staff was for later. "I met the doctor on the way in. He said that you have the keys to the boat-house."

She reached under the counter and retrieved a bunch of old keys, on a ring labelled 'Lake Buildings' in faded lettering. It was obvious that they were not much used. "Do look after them," she said. "We don't have a second set."

He reassured her, and left, twirling the keys on their ring. At the foot of the steps he hesitated. Tarot had said that he did not think the pirates were killers, but they were certainly kidnappers, and he had already been injured once. He crossed to the car and took a stout silver-knobbed walking stick from the boot. Then he strode off in the direction of the boat-house.

~oo00oo~

"Dammit," said Sam as the three watched the boat chug its way across the lake and round the central small island which hid the dragon fountain from their view. "We should have tied her up while we had the chance. There was plenty of rope lying around."

Tarot smiled. "She's a pirate captain, Sam. I expect that she is quite used to dealing with ropes. And getting free of them if tied up. Come on, let's find this boat-house and see if Victor has got the keys." 

It turned out that the boat-house was further round the shore of the lake, and closer to the house. It was a rather damp and muddy walk, and the building itself, when they reached it, was rather ramshackle. The rotting doors were secured with a hasp through which a fairly new padlock had been passed. As they approached they realised that the Duke was already there, working to open the doors.

He turned as they arrived, withdrawing the padlock and throwing the doors open. "I though that you might need transport between the islands, if there is more treasure."

"And if," said Lulli, clearly quoting from the children's story she had talked about earlier, "there's a tub in that boat-house that'll float!"

The Duke grinned. "There should be. It was one of the terms of the Trust that there should be a serviceable vessel available at all times should it be needed."

"Big enough to take four of us?" asked Tarot. "We need to sail across to the island with the pagoda."

"Take a look." The Duke ushered them inside. The boat-house was surprisingly full, with a light sailing skiff and two sturdy rowing boats in the water and a rack of four canoes against one wall. 

"The sanitorium patients used to be encouraged to exercise on the lake," he said, "Until Miss Conyers and her cousin started taking pot-shots at them. And as the lake is legally their property there wasn't anything that we could do." He reached down a set of oars from the wall. "Since there are four of us we had better take the larger rowing boat. Which of you can row?"

"We all can," said Lulli.

"But," said Sam, taking the oars from him, "If you want a straight course at a reasonable speed, it had better be me."

Tarot helped Lulli down into the boat and took the seat in the bows, book open at the map which showed the layout of the islands. Sam cast off and quickly hopped in to take a seat beside the Duke. They both fitted oars to the rowlocks and sculled out of the boat-house and onto the waters of the lake.

"Where are we bound?" asked the Duke.

"Since he wasn't on board the good Captain's vessel I expect that they have taken Mr Sweet to the pagoda, which was where Miss Conyers was heading. We'd better follow. Head for the dragon fountain first."

"Right you are," he said, pulling away with a will. "I must say I never expected to be emulating my father in this way. It's just as well he put that clause in the Trust about keeping the boats seaworthy!"

Although the lake was artificial, and therefore relatively calm, their route between the islands was a difficult one to navigate. As they skirted the dragon fountain Lulli leaned out to touch the base. "It really is like the story book," she said. "Does it still work?"

"I believe so. It's gravity-fed and the weather we've had lately probably means that the feeder pool is full. The switch is one of the dragon's eyes..."

"Maybe we'll have time later," said Tarot. Right now we have another mystery to solve."

The Duke nodded, and bent again to his oar. They rounded the second island and eventually pulled up to a small landing stage on the shore of the third, with the tall pagoda looming over them.

The ornate boat on which the Captain had made her escape was already moored here. Sam drew up alongside and jumped out to secure their boat to a post at the end of the jetty.

"It's bigger than the one at Kew," observed Sam.

"One storey taller," said the Duke, "And two feet wider. Cut-Throat is supposed to have used it as an observatory and laboratory."

"The present owners appear to be using it as a prison," said Tarot, grimly. He led the way through more tangled vegetation to the base of the tower. The door, red lacquer with brass fittings, was closed, but opened easily under Tarot's hands. "We had better take care," he said, "We don't know what they have been doing here."

They stepped through the door: and into Aladdin's cave.

Although the exterior resembled a Japanese pagoda the architecture inside bore more resemblance to a lighthouse, with a winding stair leading up through various levels to a glazed, pointed roof. But there was none of the austerity of a lighthouse. The staircase was of gilded, carved wood, similar to that of the ship they had just left, but much older. It had probably been installed by Cut-Throat himself centuries before, but it had obviously been maintained by generations of Conyers' descendents, and gleamed with polish. 

This room was clearly a library, with shelves of old books and racks of more modern magazines around the walls. There was a small writing desk with inkwell, blotter and an old fashioned candlestick telephone to one side. A comfortable leather Chesterfield filled much of the space, and two matching wing chairs flanked a fireplace. Although the coals were artificial and the fire electric it still had an air of an Edwardian gentleman's study. 

"I think," said Tarot, that Victor and Sam should wait here and guard the entrance, and be ready to come up if we call."

The Duke nodded. "There doesn't seem to be any sign of a struggle here. Perhaps they didn't bring Mr Sweet here after all?"

"Perhaps not, but I think that he is here."

"His coat is," said Sam, nodding to the hatstand by the door, where Mr Sweet's distinctive coat and hat were hung, alongside the cocked hat and embroidered coat last seen being worn by the pirate motorcyclist.

"Well observed," said the Duke. "If you and Lulli go on up we'll make sure you're not disturbed." His mouth was set in a determined line, and his hand was firm around the knob of his walking stick.

Tarot nodded, and with Lulli following, climbed the staircase to the first floor. Here it was like going back three centuries rather than one. The room and the staircase itself were crammed with the paraphernalia of a working apothecary, with racks of potion bottles, cabinets with drawers labelled with ingredients in Latin script. Stuffed creatures and bundles of herbs hung from the ceilings and occupied hooks on the walls, along with strange instruments, whips, stirring rods, staffs and wands in a dozen different materials.

"What is this place?" asked Lulli.

"A laboratory," said Tarot. "Though rather different from the one managed by the Trust. I think there _is_ someone upstairs."

"Then let's go up."

Tarot hesitated. His intuition told him that there was something wrong, but he could not say what precisely had disturbed his senses. Only that it seemed to be outside the building. He waited for a moment, trying to identify the source of his unease, then shrugged, and led the way upwards.

Climbing up through the building was like climbing up through history. If the first floor had been like an alchemist's workshop, the second looked more like a Victorian gentleman's laboratory. It was lined with shelves full of small potion bottles labelled in Latin, drawers similarly labelled, from which came the scents of herbs and spices, and bunches of greenstuff clearly picked in the gardens and also identified with Latin labels tied on with twine. In the centre of the room were marble-topped washstands and tables holding glass vessels and arrangements of clamps and rubber tubes in which would probably have been bubbling mysteriously had the Bunsen burners under them been lit.

Tarot paused to examine one of the notebooks lying open beside an antique brass microscope. "These look like the original Doctor Conyers' notes," he said. "An early experiment on cell division." He peered through the eyepiece, which seemed to confirm his conjecture.

"I wonder what it's doing here?" said Lulli, "I thought the research facility was up at the main house."

"It is. This appears to be a private enterprise. Let's see what's upstairs."

They reached the head of the stairs and emerged into light.

This room was six-sided with windows on each side, giving a view across the whole of the estate and to the levels beyond. In the centre of the room was a big astronautical telescope, set on a gimballed stand that would enable it to rotate through the whole circuit of the horizon. Although the roof was pagoda-shaped there were levers and bars which would enable individual panels to be opened on the night sky. But although the instrument took up almost the whole of the space, it was not the thing which drew their attention.

To one side was a desk. It was covered in opened books, parchment and notebooks. Leaning over it, absorbed in reading the documents was Mr Sweet. By the window the pirate boy had obviously just been disturbed by the woman, who was breathing hard with the exertion of having climbed the stairs ahead of Tarot and his companions, and was holding the boy's arm as if she had just pulled him away from the desk.

"I tell you, he's not the one! He can't read the manuscript. And we can't trust his friends. They'll betray us..."

"I assure you that we won't do anything to harm you," said Tarot. "We just wanted to make sure that Mr Sweet was all right, and to find out why you tried to steal the book from the Duke of Denver."

"It's ours!" said Pope.

"He's the Chairman of the Trustees," broke in the Captain. "He was going to lock the book away and we might never have seen it again. It belongs here." She gestured around the room, encompassing the whole of the pagoda. "This place holds all of Cut-Throat Conyers books, including his journals of his voyages, his log books, and his notes of his astronomical observations and alchemical experiments."

"I am sure," said Tarot, That if you had explained..."

Pope made a derisive sound. "The Trustees aren't interested in real research. They're only interested in money! In profit."

Lulli looked puzzled. "But the Duke never said anything about this. He was just as anxious as you to get the papers translated."

"I wonder," said Tarot, "whether the Duke knows anything about what if happening here. I think we should go down and discuss this with him."

"He's here?" exclaimed Pope. 

His cousin nodded. "He's fooled them too. If I discuss anything with him it will be at cutlass-point!"

"If you wish," Tarot sounded amused. "As long as you're willing to listen as well as fight. Let's go down."

Pope nodded, and was about to lead the way, when there was the sound of a door slamming below, and Sam's shout from below.

"Fire!" he yelled. "Ace, the ship's on fire!"

Through the pagoda windows they could all see the glow of flame against the sky.


	8. Chapter 8

They hurried down the stairs, Pope in the lead and Mr Sweet reluctantly bringing up the rear. In the distance they could see flames flickering above the trees. Sam was already down at the landing stage. He was casting off the smaller of the boats, the one that the Captain had used to escape them on the ship. Like her, he reached under the carvings at the stern and pulled the handle of the starting motor. The pirates might have had the trappings of the 16th century, but they also had the technology of the 20th. This would certainly be the quickest way back across the lake.

Back in the study Pope was dialing the candlestick phone, which was obviously not the ornament they had thought. His face was white, his expression grim.

"I've called the fire brigade," he said. They'll take some time though.

"You'd better call the police as well," said Tarot.

"Already done. Dammit, they must have been waiting until we were out of the way. At least the important stuff is here."

From the jetty came the sound of the motorboat engine as it finally caught. "Lulli!" Sam called above the noise, "you wanted to see the fountain working? Now's the time! Come with me."

Lulli glanced at Tarot, who nodded. "Go with Sam. I think I know what he is planning. We have business with the Trustees and the Doctor."

He turned back to the pagoda, not waiting to see Lulli hurry down to board the boat which roared away towards the fountain, white foam churning in its wake.

~oo00oo~

"I hope," said Sam, as he brought the boat to the base of the fountain and Lulli hitched the mooring rope to te dragon's knobbly tail, "that Victor was right about the gravity feed to this fountain. I doubt that a pump would still be working."

"Let's find out." Lulli reached out to the upraised front leg of the bronze dragon and used it to steady herself as she stepped from the boat onto the stone base of the fountain. Close too the fountain was much larger than she had expected, and she had to virtually climb onto the limb to reach the dragon's head. She threw an arm around the creature's neck for support. "You have to press one of the dragon's eyes."

"Which one?"

"I don't remember. Let's try this." She reached up. There was a grinding of metal as old gears engaged, and the dragon's wings flapped down, almost tipping her into the lake and revealing a dark hole in the creature's back.

"Wrong one?" said Sam.

"That's where the treasure was hidden," she tightened her grip and moved round to the other side. This time when she pushed in the polished stone of the eyeball the fountain responded. A stream of water shot from the dragon's open jaws and arced out over the lake.

"Well," said Sam, watching the water sparkling in the sunlight, "It's got the reach, now to see whether it can be aimed. Is there another switch?"

"No," said Lulli, climbing down to the boat, "But I think if we pull on the tail the whole thing should swivel."

Sam nodded, and set a hand on the rope already attached to the dragon's tail. Keeping the boat steady, especially with excess water from leaks in the fountain spraying around them, wasn't easy. At last Sam set the engine running again, and used the boat itself to pull at the tail. With a slow grind of metal on stone the whole thing began to move. A few seconds later the water was playing directly on the flames across the water. It could not hope to put the fire out completely, but the water would retard the flames until the brigade arrived.

Sam cut the engine again and Lulli untied the rope. As they considered their next move the frantic clanging of bells approached from the road. The fire engine was on its way.

"Let's meet them," said Sam. "I expect that Tarot can deal with the pirates and the doctors!"

~oo00oo~

As the boat sped away on its mission Tarot turned to the Duke. "Did you know that the Trustees were trying to get possession of the lake and the islands?" he asked.

"Not until today," he said. "Though Doctor Mason was acting very oddly when I met him earlier. And the receptionist said something about a meeting to which I was obviously not invited."

"A lynch mob," said Pope. "Or at least a mob of arsonists. What they can't have they want to destroy."

"I will not allow that," said the Duke, grimly. "I think it is time we confronted these people."

"Don't think we will have long to wait." growled the woman. "Once they have dealt with our home they will come here. There is a way through the grounds and only a shallow stream between this island and the shore. I will make them regret their actions." Captain Conyers had all the fierce determination of her ancestor. She drew her cutlass.

"I would prefer," said the Duke, eyeing the blade warily, "to rely on legal remedies. As Chairman of the trustees I would like to know what has been going on."

"We're trying to save the Conyers name," said Pope, "and reputation. The treasure was supposed to fund research into cancer, and find a cure. But when old Doctor Conyers died the Trust discovered that there was more profit in running an expensive sanitorium than doing life-saving research. Nothing has been done in the laboratories for years. We hoped that banning the clients from the Lake would make them think about doing the work they should be doing, but it hasn't worked. And now they're trying to get an Order to claim the islands and throw us out."  
"I assure you," said the Duke, "That I knew nothing about this. It does explain why Doctor Morton was so worried about my visit. It seems that there is a meeting of the Trustees today to which I was not invited. But what about the book? Why did you want that?"

"It belongs here," said Pope. "This room holds all of Cut-Throat Conyer's books, including his journals of his voyages, and his log books. He wasn't just interested in astronomy, he was a botanist, and a lot of his notes relate to the finding of the 'Vegetable Stone', a cure for all ills made from plant extracts."

"The plant specimens that he brought back from his travels and planted here?"

Pope nodded. "Yes. The gardens are full of things that aren't usually found in England, some aren't even growing in the Caribbean any more. The resources here are unique. We've been replicating his experiments, and he really may have made a big contribution to medical research - which is why we want to do more. The Trust was set up to find a cure for cancer. We wanted to get them to take the Conyers papers seriously. They have facilities we don't. Instead..."

"Instead," said the Duke, grimly, "They have betrayed the very Trust that was intended to do the work you are doing. I agree with Miss Conyers, they should be made to regret their actions."

"We are about to have the opportunity," said Tarot, as three white-coated figures stepped from the undergrowth beside the pagoda. "Mr Sweet, I think you had better go back inside and keep an eye on the manuscript."

The leading figure, Doctor Mason, heard him and grinned. "Oh we're not interested in your antique books and your foolish experiments. We just want the land. A couple of signatures on a piece of paper and you can get out."

"And the gardens?" asked Tarot, mildly, "doesn't Cut-Throat Conyers' collection of plants interest you?"

"What? No!" He looked baffled.

"They should," Tarot was smiling now. "Particularly the poisonous specimen that you must have pushed through to get to this place. Manchineel, isn't it, Pope?"

The pirate looked briefly baffled himself, then he glanced at Tarot, and also smiled. "One of my ancestors most prized specimens. The natives of the Caribbean use it as a poison. It is almost as deadly as curare. Doesn't your hand itch?"

The doctor glanced from one to the other, and then down at his hand. There was a red patch on the skin. He rubbed at it and winced. "Poison!"

Tarot nodded. "Oh I shouldn't worry, Doctor. You probably have a few days. Maybe you could open those neglected laboratories of yours and see whether you can find an antidote. I'm sure Mr Pope and Miss Conyers would be able to advise you."

"Oh yes," said Miss Conyers. She had sheathed her blade, but her eyes were sharp as steel. "Of course, there will be a price."

The doctor was not looking at her, his attention was entirely focussed on his throbbing hand. His companions were also checking their exposed skin for similar signs. "Yes! Yes, I'll pay whatever you want."

"We don't want anything more than we have already asked for," said Pope. "For the Conyers Foundation to be returned to its original purpose, and for both house and land to be acknowledged as the property of the legitimate heirs of Captain Cuthbert Conyers. We have the necessary documents here. It only requires your signature." He bowed, ironically, "And that of the Chairman of the Trustees, who has already agreed to the terms."

The Duke nodded, and led the way into the pagoda, where Pope took the documents from a drawer and set them on the desk for signature. When Doctor Mason had signed, and the ink had been blotted on both signatures and those of Mr Sweet and Tarot as witnesses, he turned to the latter in desperation.

"Now, what about my hand? The poison? Do something!"

Tarot looked at Pope. "I don't suppose you have anything as ordinary as a dock plant growing nearby? Rubbing with a dock leaf is the traditional cure for a nettle sting."

"What! You lied to me!"

"I made a suggestion," said Tarot. "You really should not believe anything a magician tells you."

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Close readers will note that I have taken the liberty of marrying St George to Hilary Thorpe (who appears memorably in "The Nine Tailors"), at some time during WWII, and allowing the Dukedom to descend to their legitimate son, Victor Henry Wimsey (1945-date).
> 
> I have also removed various references to the rebuilding of the Yellow Drawing Room at Bredon Hall (damaged by the boys school housed there during WWII) by Lady Winifred Wimsey, who spent the wartime years studying architecture at Harvard under Walter Gropius - there may be a separate story covering her wartime and post war activities.
> 
> My biggest problem in writing this was checking exactly what technology was available in the 1970s. CCTV relied on video tape and had to be checked after the fact. There were no mobile phones, and radio broadcasting (down to walkie-talkie level) was strictly controlled and licenced. That said, Tarot clearly had access to state of the art tech for his act, sometimes well ahead of what was actually possible at the time. (A criticism that could also be levelled at Lord Peter for his security in 1926.)
> 
> I have been meaning to write another Ace of Wands story for some time, and to incorporate the Voynich Manuscript (given that, as of the date of writing, the text has yet to be deciphered) as a plot device. It was only when rereading the Sayers short stories that I realised that here was an opportunity to introduce real old manuscripts into a fictional universe. This is much easier in these days when rare incunabula are available to anyone with a good search engine, rather than those with a private fortune and a tame bookseller, advantages shared by Lord Peter and Tarot. 
> 
> The Doctor Conyers of the DLS story says that since the days of Cuthbert (Cut-throat) Conyers "the family has died out, and I am the sole representative of the Conyers," However he has a nephew, Wilberforce Pope, which suggests that he has at least one sister (married to a Mr Pope) and there is no reason to suppose that he might not have had a much younger sister who remained unmarried - and who would be understandably annoyed by being overlooked in the matter of inheritance.


End file.
